


silence broken

by fatal_drum



Series: the silence of the sea [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Intimacy, I promise, M/M, Manipulation, Shaving Kink, Suicidal Ideation, forced engagement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Peter stakes his claim on Martin, in more ways than one. Trapped on board theTundra,Martin sees few options. But what happens when they return to the Institute?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: the silence of the sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690969
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	silence broken

**Author's Note:**

> This story features extremely negative thoughts from a survivor of sexual assault. I want to make it very clear that _none_ of the awful things Martin thinks about himself are true of anyone. Abuse does not make someone unclean or unworthy. 
> 
> Many thanks to [@cuttooth](https://cuttoothed.tumblr.com/) for their beta help, and for being a fantastic friend. Thanks also to everyone who read and commented on the first story in this series. You guys are wonderful. <3

Martin loses track of how many men have used him. His lips are cracked and bloody, his mouth half numb, and his jaw aches. He's not sure he'll ever get the taste out of his mouth. So many prying hands, so many hungry faces. By the end, he barely notices who's doing what. Men have used his mouth, his hands, rubbed off on his face and hair, even rutted against his chest. 

At first he clung to the hope of feeling clean again someday. That hope is long gone; he’s too soiled to go back. He wonders absently when he stopped being salvageable. Was it after Peter fucked him? Or after he came, squirting all over himself like the slut he's been assured he is? Was it when the first of the crew took him, or the fourth? 

Someone carries him to Peter's quarters. He's not sure when that happens, but one moment he's on the deck, shivering in his ruined clothes, and the next, he's soaking in warm water. With bubbles, even. He stares at the pristine white foam, uncomprehending. 

"...get you clean, first," Peter murmurs, and Martin is too tired to be afraid. He's too tired to be anything.

Peter tilts Martin's head back, pours warm water over his hair, and then lathers it with something that smells sweet and soft, like lavender. His stomach roils. It's exactly the sort of scent he would have picked for himself, and not remotely something Peter would use. Had Peter picked it for him? The fragrant bubbles and the luxurious shampoo? 

Fresh tears leak from his eyes, which are already sore and swollen. How useless. Crying has never helped him before, and it definitely won’t now.

Strong hands massage his scalp, working the shampoo through to his roots. No one’s ever done that for him before, not since he was a child. Not even a lover. It feels almost pleasant. He’s fairly sure he should be ashamed, but he’s too tired for that. 

Peter is speaking again, he realizes. 

“...so well for me. I knew you would. Eyes closed, now.” 

Martin obeys without thinking, and Peter tips his head back to rinse his hair, careful not to spill any in his eyes. Then Peter starts working conditioner into the thick curls. Martin didn’t think he _owned_ conditioner. This is entirely too surreal, in a way he’s not sure he can handle. How strange it would be if _this_ is what undoes him. He decides paying attention is too much of a risk, and retreats into the dullness of his mind. Sometimes he catches words, like _perfect,_ or _beautiful,_ or _whore._

A cloth makes its way over his body, scrubbing the filth and grime from his skin. _Like it never happened._ If Peter cleans his body, he’ll just be ready to soil again. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of him to clean. Until he’s just a ring left in the bathtub, a footnote in the ledgers of the Institute. The cloth begins at his face, wiping streaks of tears and dried come. Then it dips down to his neck, his shoulders, down his chest and belly. It lingers between his thighs, rubbing light circles around his cock, then sliding behind it, in between the slick folds. Martin feels like someone else’s body is being touched. 

He’s almost surprised when the cloth travels down his thighs again, over his calves, even between his toes. Peter guides him up onto his knees, then washes the back of him. 

“Much better,” he says, turning on the taps to rinse Martin’s hair again. “Don’t you think?”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer, and Martin doesn’t give him one. Instead Peter helps him to his feet, patting him dry with a soft towel, before leading him to the bed. 

“Beautiful boy,” he murmurs, crouching between Martin’s splayed thighs. Martin should stop him, should push him away, but he’s so _tired._ He just wants it to be over. Peter kisses a trail up his thighs, alternating soft licks with teasing nips, until he reaches Martin’s cunt. He spreads the folds with his hands, pressing open-mouthed kisses against his hole before dipping his tongue inside. Heat blooms inside Martin, and he can feel himself growing wet as Peter wraps his lips around his cock and sucks gently. He’s still sore from earlier, but his cock doesn’t seem to care. Martin’s breathing grows faster, and he bites his lip to keep quiet. He can’t hide the way his hips jerk whenever Peter finds a sensitive spot, nor ignore the chuckle Peter makes each time.

Eventually, Peter tires of his game, which is almost a relief, except for what comes next. He climbs on top of him, pushing Martin’s legs as far apart as they’ll go so he can fuck him again. The penetration stings like salt on an open wound, and Martin cries out softly. 

“Shhh,” Peter says, brushing a thumb over Martin’s lips. He fucks Martin slowly, breathing heavily into his ear. 

It's dark in Peter's cabin, and there's not much to look at besides the ceiling. Martin wonders why this has happened to him. Why it's still happening to him. Peter's movements push him up the mattress until his head is pressed against the wall, bending his neck at an awkward angle. Peter drags him back with one hand, then mashes their lips together, tongue stroking the inside of his mouth. Martin's lips are chapped and painful. He must taste disgusting, but Peter moans into his mouth, his thrusts rocking Martin's body. Peter’s hips rub against his cock with each stroke, and he can feel the tension building in his abdomen, can feel his body tightening around Peter’s cock, making him swear and dig his fingers into Martin’s hips. The orgasm makes Martin’s body spasm, pinned under Peter’s broad frame. He bites his lip until he tastes blood. 

Once Peter finally comes, he rolls off of Martin, panting. Moving is more effort than Martin can summon, so he lies where he is. His cunt is an aching, sodden mess. He’s fairly sure he’s bleeding.

“You can go now,” Peter says absently. 

Back to his room. His room outside, where _they_ are. His room with no lock. Panic breaks through the shell of calm that’s settled over him, and Martin whimpers. 

“I—no, please, don’t make me—”

“You’d miss me that much?” Martin can hear Peter’s smirk more than see it. 

“P-please let me stay,” he says quietly. 

There’s a long pause, and then Peter says, “Suit yourself.” Martin lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

Peter rolls Martin onto his side, throwing a possessive arm around his waist. After everything else, this shouldn’t bother him, but it does. There’s nothing to do, though, but stare out into the darkness and wait for sleep to claim him.

* * *

Martin wakes to someone rocking against him, clutching his hip and grinding against his arse. He immediately panics and tries to pull away, clawing at the sheets, but they roll him onto his belly, pinning him against the bed. 

“You’re rather ruining the mood,” Peter says, amused. 

The memory of the night before hits him all at once, and he freezes. Peter nuzzles the back of his neck. 

“Ever had it in the arse before?” Peter asks, rubbing himself between Martin’s cheeks. When he doesn’t get an answer, he slaps his arse hard.

“I—yes!” Martin yelps, wincing. 

“Did you enjoy it?” 

The head of Peter’s cock catches on his rim, making him gasp. 

“Martin,” Peter says warningly.

“...yes,” Martin confesses, his face growing hot. 

Peter’s hips work against his. He’s fully erect, smearing precome on Martin’s skin. Each movement pushes Martin’s cock into the mattress.

“I can fuck your arse, or I can fuck your cunt. Your choice. But you have to ask nicely.”

Martin thinks of the pain from last night, how much worse it hurt the second time. He hasn’t had any time to heal. 

“M-my arse,” he says quietly. “Please.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.” Martin can hear the smirk in Peter’s voice. 

Martin’s eyes squeeze shut, face burning. “P-please fuck my arse.”

“Oh, but your cunt’s so lovely and wet for me,” Peter says, slipping a hand between Martin’s thighs. His probing fingers sting, drawing a whimper from Martin’s throat.

“Please, Peter,” Martin says desperately. “I want you to fuck my arse. I, I’ll be good for you, _please—”_

“Keen, aren’t we?”

To Martin’s relief, Peter leans over to open the side table, bringing out a bottle of lube. He drips it down Martin’s crease, making him flinch from the cold liquid, then smears it against his hole. Martin feels this head of his cock slide against his rim before slowly pushing in. He grips the sheets with both hands, forcing himself to relax; Peter’s bigger than anyone he’s been with, and the stretch is intense. He’s panting by the time Peter bottoms out. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Peter praises, gripping Martin’s hips. He fucks him slow and lazy, like they’re lovers on a Sunday morning instead of...this. “Your Archivist doesn’t know what he’s missing.” 

Rage flickers in Martin. _“Don't—”_

“Because you really are something,” Peter says, as if he didn’t hear him. “I wonder, will you squirt again for me this time? You sweet little whore…”

Peter pulls Martin up by the hips so he’s kneeling with his face against the pillow. He uses one hand to grip Martin’s hip, the other to stroke his cock. Each thrust sends sparks up his spine, makes him grow wetter, so Peter’s fingers slide against his skin. He can’t stifle the moans coming from him, can’t stop his hips from bucking against Peter’s hand. Peter’s teeth sink into the side of his neck, and Martin tenses suddenly, coming in spurts all over Peter’s hand and the sheets. Peter growls deep in his throat before slamming in to the hilt, emptying his balls into Martin’s arse.

Afterwards, Peter lies atop him, stroking his hair while they both catch their breath. The pillow under Martin’s cheek is soaked with tears. 

* * *

Peter gives him the day off, smirking that Martin’s earned his rest. He hands him a bundle of something soft and smooth, then leaves, locking the door behind him. Martin can’t say he’s not relieved, though the contents of the bundle are...unsettling. A cream-colored silk robe with matching briefs, both in his size. He considers refusing, but his clothes are in his cabin, and his only other choices are to go naked or wear Peter’s clothing. 

The first thing he does is take a shower. He ignores the bathtub as best he can, trying not to think of what will happen when Peter gets back. There’s nothing he can do about it right now. He entertains fantasies of strangling Peter the next time he touches him, or smothering him with a pillow, but that would leave him alone with the crew. 

There is, however, another option lurking in his thoughts. One escape that would be permanent. He could even take Peter down with him, ridding the world of so much it didn’t need. His eyes squeeze shut as he considers it, letting the hot spray hit his chest. No more monsters. No more fear. No more _hands_ on him, pinching, prying, ever again. He’d be saving countless people from becoming Peter’s victims. But…

There’s still Jon. He’d looked so _lost_ the last time he’d cornered Martin at the Institute. Whatever’s coming, he can’t handle it alone. There are too many people invested in his downfall. And no one else has stepped in to help him.

Certainty crystalizes inside him. He survived Jane Prentiss. He survived last night, and this morning. He can hold on until he knows Jon’s safe. It’s not forever. It may even be _soon._

Afterwards he dries off, and puts on the clothes Peter’s left him. Much to his consternation, they fit perfectly. He tries not to think about how long Peter must have been planning this. How often he’d looked at Martin and _known_ what he would do. 

Someone brings him breakfast, a sailor he doesn’t recognize. He leaves the tray for Martin without speaking. Martin has no real appetite, so he takes the tea and leaves the rest, choosing to explore the cabin instead. Peter has a few books, mostly nonfiction, with a few volumes of poetry. There’s an old-fashioned spyglass on the shelf, along with a brass sextant and other instruments he can’t name, all doubtlessly worth a small fortune. The bedside table contains an alarming variety of toys and restraints—he slams the drawer shut and decides to look elsewhere.

Peter’s wardrobe contains no surprises, the same clothes he’s seen before, except the drawer he’d pulled Martin’s robe from. That drawer contains more of the same, diaphanous robes and silky undergarments that makes Martin’s stomach turn. Another drawer contains soft cashmere jumpers, crisp dress shirts, and tailored trousers, all brand new. They’re not in Peter’s size, but they look like they’d fit Martin perfectly.

Shaking, Martin shuts the drawer and decides he’s been awake long enough. 

* * *

Around noon, someone comes with another tray. Martin ignores the intruder until he leaves, then goes back to sleep. 

He’s woken by Peter’s voice whispering in his ear: “Miss me?”

Martin stays silent.

“This hunger strike isn’t cute, you know. Antony works hard on your meals.” Peter’s voice drops lower. “Unless you’d rather I send you to the mess hall. See if _they_ can convince you to eat.”

Martin can’t stop the tremor in his voice as he says, “I—I’ll eat. I promise.”

Peter kisses the back of his neck. “Knew you’d see things my way.” 

Apparently Martin slept through someone bringing dinner, because there's already a fresh tray. They eat at Peter’s desk. Peter chatters about his day while Martin forces down bites of fish stew. The food on the _Tundra_ had been perfectly tolerable before, but his stomach rebels with each swallow. He eats as much as he can manage, praying Peter will think it’s enough. 

“I’ve got something special in mind for dessert,” Peter says, and Martin’s heart sinks. “Follow me.”

At Peter’s urging, he sheds his clothing, perching on the side of the tub. He spares a moment to miss his binder as Peter gathers his supplies: a wash cloth, shaving foam, and a straight razor. The blade is small and sharp, with a wicked edge. His heart skips a beat as Peter kneels between his thighs. 

Peter turns on the tap to wet the cloth, then wrings it out over Martin’s lap, pushing his knees apart to delve between his legs. Martin grips the edge of the tub with white knuckles. The water is warm against his skin. Peter applies a generous layer of shaving foam before reaching for the straight razor. 

Martin’s legs try to close on instinct, but they can’t with Peter crouched between them. “Peter, please don’t—” he begs.

Peter pinches his thigh hard, making him yelp. 

“If you don’t hold still, I’m going to _miss,”_ he says calmly. “You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

With a great deal of effort, Martin parts his legs again. 

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, kissing his thigh. 

The cold metal slides across Martin’s pubic mound, leaving a swath of hairless skin. Peter rinses it and continues across his mons, then slides down the sides, shaving his outer lips. Without warning, he presses the flat of the blade against Martin’s cock, and Martin nearly screams, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. Peter chuckles. 

“You’re so lovely like this,” he says, parting Martin’s lips with his fingers. Martin hisses, still sore, as he dips his fingertips inside. “You’re even wet for me. How sweet.”

Martin looks away. He can’t deny the evidence glinting on Peter’s fingers, even if he tells himself it’s just a response to adrenaline, and not anything else. 

Peter hums to himself as he shaves the last bits of hair with small, deft movements, until Martin’s completely smooth. He rinses the shaving foam away before pressing a kiss to Martin’s pubic mound. His beard tickles the newly shaven skin, making him squirm uncomfortably.

“Beautiful,” he says, before mouthing at Martin’s cock. Martin gasps out loud, hips rocking against Peter’s mouth as he alternates soft licks with long strokes of his tongue. He kisses his way down to Martin’s hole, lapping at the tender skin before pressing in. Martin whimpers. Peter’s tongue hurts less than his fingers had that morning, but it still hurts, even if there’s a dull sort of pleasure behind it. 

He lets his mind drift. Nothing he says will stop Peter from touching him, and he wants very much to think of something—literally _anything_ _—_ else. 

He wonders what Jon’s doing right now, and regrets it. His little fantasy about a relationship has always been ridiculous, but now it feels cruelly absurd. The thought of even existing in the same _room_ with Jon hurts. He’d probably know what happened before Martin opened his mouth, smell it on his skin, even. Martin stifles a sob. 

Still, if Peter’s out on the _Tundra_ with Martin, that means he can’t hurt Jon. That’s worth something, right? Martin wishes he had Elias’s ability, just so he could see Jon’s face again. He hopes he’s taking care of himself for once. 

Something cold presses against his cock, and Martin gasps. He tries to squirm away, but Peter’s arm is wrapped around his hips. He gives Martin an unimpressed look as he taps the straight razor against Martin’s flesh.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

“N-no!” Martin stammers. 

“You really don’t seem to be paying _attention.”_

Peter slides the flat of the blade between Martin’s folds, pushing against his entrance. 

That’s the point when Martin breaks, bursting into sobs and curling in on himself. He stops caring about Peter, about the razor and the threat it poses, too overwhelmed by grief and helplessness. Strong arms wrap around him, pulling him into Peter’s chest, and Martin weeps into his chest. Peter helps him to his feet, guiding him back to the bed, where he cradles him like a lover. The gentle treatment just makes Martin cry harder. 

“S-stop acting like this,” he sobs. “J-just get it over with and f-fuck me.” 

Peter strokes the hair from his face, kissing his forehead. 

“Oh, Martin,” he says softly. “Do you really think that’s what this is about?”

Martin wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, staring in confusion. 

“You’re not just some casual fuck. You're _mine._ When all this nonsense with the Institute is over, I'm going to take you home and make an honest man out of you." Peter cups his cheek, smiling gently. “I could just fuck you, but that's not how I intend to treat my future husband. I want to watch you come first. A few times, I think.” 

Peter leans over to open the bedside table, fishing out a sleek black vibrator. He presses the tip to Martin’s cock, switching it on. Martin yelps and tries to squirm away, but Peter simply pins him with a hand on his hip. 

“You’re going to enjoy this,” Peter promises.

The vibrator is stronger than anything he’s ever used on himself, making him spasm so hard it _hurts._ Within seconds, he’s clawing at the sheets, fighting the orgasm that’s already building. His thighs quake, and he bites his lip hard. 

“P-peter, please—” he begs, but he’s already sailing over the edge, coming so hard he gushes all over his thighs and Peter’s hand. The vibration immediately becomes too much, and he tries to move away, but Peter grips his hip with bruising force. 

“You’ve got a few more in you, I can feel it,” Peter tells him. “Just lie back and enjoy yourself ” 

Peter’s eyes are fixed on Martin’s face. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to scream from the overstimulation. Peter strokes his slit, probing his tender hole as he lets the toy do its work. The vibrations are overpowering, like someone rubbing sandpaper against fresh wounds, or screaming in his ears during a migraine. It’s so, so much, and it’s only been a few minutes. 

He comes again when Peter shoves two fingers into his cunt, his whole body contracting with the force of the orgasm. Peter crooks his fingers expertly, and a third orgasm follows on its heels, making him sob. 

“Please!” he begs, chest heaving with the force of his tears. “P-please stop!”

It’s the first time he’s asked Peter to stop since...before, and Peter grins down at him. 

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t make sure you were taken care of?”

Before Martin can answer, Peter slips another finger into him, and it stings viciously, but Martin’s body shudders as he comes yet again. Frantic, he tries another tactic. 

“I—f-fuck me, please,” he begs. “I need—”

He flails a hand out, only catching Peter’s thigh by chance, and slides up until he finds the bulge of his cock. Peter groans, pressing Martin’s hand harder against him. 

“I suppose you’ve earned it,” he says generously, switching the vibrator off. 

Martin pants, sagging into the mattress. He barely notices Peter undressing, focused on catching his breath. Peter rolls him onto his side, pressing himself against Martin’s back. His cock slides between Martin’s thighs, making him whimper when it brushes against Martin’s own, before he enters him. Martin cries out softly with the pain of it. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Peter promises. “Though I can’t say I don’t love how tight you are.”

Peter fucks him slowly, with deep thrusts that rock Martin's body. His hand reaches between Martin’s thighs, lazily rubbing at his oversensitized cock, and he gasps. Peter seems to take it as encouragement, speeding up his movements. Martin can't help the sounds that spill from him, soft moans and whimpers, as Peter rubs him insistently. He didn't think it was possible, but he can feel his body tensing, pressure coiling between his thighs as another orgasm approaches.

"Christ, you're tight," Peter moans. "Are you going to come for me again? Squeeze me nice and hard, just milking the come out of me—you love it, don't you?"

Martin does his best to tune him out, but Peter's stubble rasps against his ear as he speaks, and he's so close to coming he can taste it. Peter angles his thrusts just _so,_ and suddenly Martin's screaming, coming so hard he nearly blacks out, clutching at Peter's shoulders as tears leak from his eyes. Peter doesn't relent, pummeling Martin's cunt until he finally buries himself to the hilt, filling him with come.

"Beautiful boy," Peter praises, kissing his face and his mouth and his neck. "I can't wait to marry you. Do you think your Archivist will come to the ceremony? I hope he does…"

Peter continues along the same vein for a while, stroking Martin's skin as he talks. He doesn’t seem to need Martin’s input. Martin lets himself fade away, retreating deep within himself, to a place where nothing matters. He misses the smile that curls Peter’s mouth. 


End file.
